


Wincest ABC Drabbles - 2018

by misha_collins_butt



Series: ABC Drabbles [1]
Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angry!Sam, Coercion, Consensual Non-Consent, Death, Depiction of mental illness, Drabbles, Drugs, Fluff, Hate Crime, Homophobic John Winchester, Homophobic Language, Intrusive Thoughts, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Illness, Multi, Mutant Dean Winchester, Mutant Sam Winchester, Mutants, Non-consent, Nuclear War, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Apocalyptic, Post-Death in the Family, Risky Behaviour, Sam's Hair, Self harmful behaviour, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesomes, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Weed, depiction of OCD, high!Sam, natural distaster, profound fluff, wincest drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-10 22:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 12,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16463465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: I know what you're thinking: holy SHIT, they're back!!!!The answer is...sort of?I've been writing a novel (yes, a real, actual book. It's young adult action/adventure fiction and it's beautiful) and needed a way to exercise my writing talents on the days where I don't feel like I have the energy to write a novel. So I started writing fics.Now, my brain is mean, so it won't let me finish any fics I have yet to finish (*cough Angel's Lullaby cough*) but it IS letting me get something out of the way that I've been meaning to do for a LOOOONG time: MORE ABC DRABBLES!And so, with some excitement, I present to you, dear reader, my sort-of-comeback.





	1. Anger

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're thinking: holy SHIT, they're back!!!!   
> The answer is...sort of?   
> I've been writing a novel (yes, a real, actual book. It's young adult action/adventure fiction and it's beautiful) and needed a way to exercise my writing talents on the days where I don't feel like I have the energy to write a novel. So I started writing fics.   
> Now, my brain is mean, so it won't let me finish any fics I have yet to finish (*cough Angel's Lullaby cough*) but it IS letting me get something out of the way that I've been meaning to do for a LOOOONG time: MORE ABC DRABBLES!
> 
> And so, with some excitement, I present to you, dear reader, my sort-of-comeback.

Sam shoves his brother into the wall, towering over him. He's huffing chagrin and blooming red. Sick of the danger. The nauseating anxiety of losing the older man. Yet again. 

 

And yet again, they're put in the situation of their own accord. How can he keep agreeing to this? Knowing the risks? 

 

Hunting monsters is one thing. They're predictable. They adhere to patterns and outlines. Sam and Dean always know exactly how to plan it. Who's the defense, who's the offense. Who's the bait, who's the last-second drop in. Who digs, who burns. The boys don't even speak to communicate when hunting monsters anymore. They feel each other; the presences, the blood. They move in tandem like a bird's tireless wings. 

 

But hunting humans...that's a different story. Humans are the most dangerous monsters. They don't use teeth and claws and sounds to prey. Humans are fickle, erratic. They use weapons that are hidden in incalculable places. Double edged swords in their hands and at their teeth, just like the gamble of confronting a monster of the human calibre. 

 

Worst of all, they use guns. Guns forged in malice and murder. Guns with bullets made of steel instead of salt. Guns that can make Dean bleed. Guns that Dean isn't afraid of because he's maddeningly reckless.

 

And now that idiotic man wants to play clueless. As if he doesn't understand Sam's lividity. As if Sam hasn't made it painfully clear; his fears, his reasons, his love. As if Dean can still deny the facts. 

 

Two can play at that game. 

 

Sam clamps Dean's face in his hand and presses his lips hotly to Dean's. And to no surprise, Dean doesn't push away or hestitate. He latches on instead, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist, shoving the other through the back of his hair. And Sam loops an arm between Dean's back and the wall. Presses into it, breaths hitching.

 

And Sam tastes him. All of him. Soaks him in and weeps for mercy. For pity. And within the deep, cavernous tunnels of this underground fortress, built to protect them from the world of horrors above, Sam feels exposed, vulnerable. Putting himself in a new type of danger. A whole different kind of gamble. One that could tear them apart and leave them subject to the elements, or finally knit them into a singular soul. A frightening gamble, indeed.

 

But the saving grace is that at least, no matter what this does, both options are better than facing the world out there alone.

 

Because humans are scary when they see that you're different from them. They become violent. They try to kill the ones that have come to suffer the most. 

 

Especially the ones who were mutated by the radiation of the bombs.


	2. Braid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just that "they're dancing around each other and won't acknowledge the chemistry between them but hey they're touching" type of fluff.

Dean looks up from his book. He does it again. Sam. That stupid hair. He just lets it grow and grow and has to keep blowing it out of his face. The sound is less annoying than simply knowing that kid will never listen about getting a hair cut.

 

Dean sighs dramatically, prompting a bored glare from the boy.

 

"If you'd just-"

 

"No, Dean. The answer is still no."

 

They relapse into the buzzing silence of the dingy motel room. Nauseating lights, AC that stalls, and a bathroom that smells like more than one person died in there. 

 

Dean purses his lips. Closes his book and uncrosses his legs. Pushes out of his chair. He digs through his duffle bag, and marches over to stand behind Sam, items hidden behind his back.

 

"What are you doing?!" Sam freaks, whipping around to save his head from what he thinks Dean wants to do. "You are NOT cutting my hair."

 

Dean chuckles, "Don't worry, Rapunzel, your hair's not going anywhere."

 

From behind his back, he pulls out a brush and two hair elastics. Sam relaxes, barely, and turns back around. Dean feels a rush of pride that Sam has so much faith in him.

 

The brush glides through his hair like a longboat on a silent river. It's so shiny. Soft. Way softer than Dean thought it'd be. 

 

Sam's eyes drift closed as he leans back in his chair. His breathing slows down. Is he falling asleep? Dean sees his fingers tapping each other. No, he's awake. Kid can't stay still for a second. 

 

He sets the brush down and combs Sam's hair back with his fingers. A happy, breathy sound escapes from Sam's lips. Dean smiles softly and starts crossing pieces of hair over each other. 

 

It only takes a few minutes, and then Dean is wrapping an elastic around the bottom of the braid. He can't see his brother's face, but he can feel Sam's frown when his fingers finally leave his hair. A stinging pain gathers in the pit of his stomach. 

 

"There. Now you can stop blowing it out of your face every five seconds," Dean feigns a smile and replaces the brush in his bag. 

 

From behind him, he hears a small, nervous, "Thanks, Dean."

 

He closes his eyes and breathes the words in.


	3. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go south (literally) when Dean catches Sammy diddling himself. Non-explicit smut ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third time I've tried to upload this fic to this buggy site :p if it doesn't work this time, I'm going to throw something.

Sam gasps, scraping his nails down his bare chest, eyes screwed shut, head tilted back. 

 

Dean's gone out to find some poor girl to fuck in the back of the car, so Sam figures he might as well have some fun too. Even if it's just with himself...thinking about his own brother. 

 

What?! No! Why did an image of his naked brother pop into his head? And, more importantly, why the hell did it turn him on? 

 

Jesus, that's fucked up. And...and kinda...hot.

 

Sam furrows his brows and lets the image slide back into his mind. His tongue leaves a glistening sheen on his lips as he wonders what it would be like to press them to Dean's. Holy fuck, this is so wrong. 

 

But it feels so g--

 

"Jesus Christ, Sam!" Dean yelps, and Sam sits straight up and yanks the blanket over himself, a bright, red heat fading across his face. "Never heard of locking the door?!"

 

"I didn't think of that since you said you were going to the bar," Sam mutters, not daring to look at his brother.

 

"So?!"

 

"So," Sam repeats pointedly, now angry at Dean for his own mistake, "when you go to the bar, you never come back until after midnight because you get preoccupied fucking random girls."

 

The one time Sam takes time for himself while Dean is gone and Dean has to interrupt it. 

 

Dean. He hasn't made a retort. It's been at least a few seconds. Usually he's wittier than this. Maybe he's just drunk.

 

Sam finally musters the courage to look up. Hist brother is staring at the ground, working his jaw. 

 

"Guess my game was just off tonight," he mumbles, closing and locking the door behind him. 

 

Silence berates the words they won't say, catching bad ideas behind teeth locked up by years of awkward comradery and complicated dances to step around the elephant in the room. 

 

Sam swallows hard and breathes out slowly.

 

"You could...show me what you did so I can help you make some changes..." Sam tries, trailing off. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. He's unlocked Pandora's box and has no idea where the key went. 

 

Probably hidden in his throbbing dick, which he can't seem to calm down.

 

To his utter surprise, Dean doesn't even hesitate or protest. Just nods (maybe a little too excitedly?) and makes his way to the edge of the bed to sit down next to Sam.

 

The older man scrubs the back of his head with his rough hand, a pink sun setting across his cheeks despite the curtains being closed.

 

"Uh..." Dean chuckles awkwardly, biting his lip. "Weirdly I'm better at this when it's a stranger."

 

Sam shrugs and replies, as casually as possible, praying Dean doesn't hear the hopefulness in his voice, "Just do the first thing you feel like doing."

 

"Right," Dean breathes, eyelashes veiling his line of sight. "Um...hey. You ever been with an FBI agent?"

 

Sam lets out a laugh and slams a hand over his mouth, catching himself.

 

"That bad?" Dean asks, a crooked smile tilting his cheek, and Sam nods apologetically. 

 

They both laugh, then it's quiet again. 

 

Sam breaks it by daring to whisper, "Maybe...without words."

 

Dean's lips fall open but no sound comes out. His eyes get starry and wide, breath gets raspy, body gets closer, and he replies, just as softly, "Yeah."

 

And they're so close now, and Dean's finger is under Sam's chin and their foreheads press together and Sam lets his hand rest on the back of Dean's head and then their lips touch. Just a brush of skin. Again. This time a little more confident. And again. And this time, neither of them pulls back. They just kiss, slowly, gently, like exploring a new land.

 

Somehow, Dean ends up on top of Sam, who's helping him rip his clothes off. Dean pulls his shirt over his head and Sam works on the button and zipper of his jeans, where he feels his older brother's dick hardening and Jesus he's so hot from this angle. 

 

The jeans are kicked off, the underwear yanked down and Sam's clinging to Dean, nails embedding in his back, as they work their lips together. Dean drags his mouth down Sam's neck, teeth grazing lightly, and he whispers, urgent and needy, "Let me suck you off. Please?" 

 

All Sam can manage is a hitched breath and a rapid nod, and not even a second later, he's nearly shouting as Dean's lips slide down his still hard cock and he feels Dean's hand squeezing his thigh and the other pressing into his hip.

 

If this is how his mouth feels, what does his incredible ass feel like?

 

And Sam supposes, this would be the exact right time to find out.


	4. Drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, weed is a wonderful way to wind down, isn't it? Also, Sam gets REALLY horny when he's high. Like seriously, someone needs to keep this kid away from the devil's lettuce, or he's going to fuck everyone in town.

Sam giggles again and Dean smacks him on the arm. 

 

"Shut up, you're gonna get us in trouble," Dean growls but Sam just snorts and muffles his laughter behind his hands.

 

Dean had thought it a wonderful idea to smoke up right before coming to the library to find lore for their dad, but obviously Sam can't handle his THC. Should've known it'd be the same reaction as with booze. The kid's a lightweight all around.

 

They'd found the books they needed and settled themselves into a back corner of the library, blocked off from 95% of the rest of the library by way of bookshelves stuffed with ancient tales that no one has been interested in for years. The one opening gives them a line of sight to a wall, so while it's unlikely they'll be reprimanded or even spotted, for that matter, Dean doesn't want to take any chances. 

 

John's already given him a solid whack upside the head for the last time he did drugs. Asshole. Can't let them have fun once in a while.

 

"Hey," Sam starts, seeming to finally have regained his composure, but he has to pause to laugh. He tries again, "Hey, Dean. Guess what?"

 

Dean rolls his eyes and, irritated, responds through gritted teeth, "What?"

 

He almost screams when Sam's lips are suddenly pressed against his ear, that stealth little shit.

 

And then he almost screams again when Sam whispers, "I think you're so fucking hot."

 

Instead he turns his head to stare the boy down. But that doesn't do much good - Sam's face is still close and their noses end up brushing together. And Sam's wearing a shit-eating grin and his pupils are enormous and what the fuck was in that weed and woah Sam's hand is on his thigh, sweet Mary mother of Jesus it's so warm and so close to Dean's--

 

"Sam, what are you doing?" Dean whispers quickly, scoldingly, moving his own hand to remove Sam's from his leg. But he makes several mistakes, the first of which being that he sounds far more turned on than angry.

 

His second mistake is that he doesn't pull back when Sam leans in even closer and nestles his lips with Dean's. And his third mistake? Instead of pushing Sam's hand away, as he intended to do, he just pushes Sam's hand a little higher, encouraging him. 

 

And as Sam sneaks his tongue into Dean's mouth, Dean leads Sam's hand to just above the waistline of his jeans. Sam takes that as the invitation to shove his hand down Dean's pants, which Dean can't find a reason to complain about, and he quietly moans into Sam's insistent kiss. This kid is on something. Other than pot.

 

Sam's hand is so familiar and warm and-and...Dean's never come so fast or so hard in his entire 18 years of life. Where did Sam learn to do THAT. 

 

Sam breathes out against Dean's cheek and slides his hand out from Dean's messy pants. Damnit, he's gotta wait to get back to the motel to wash himself off. 

 

"What about you?" Dean whispers, chasing Sam's lips as he pulls away. 

 

Sam just grins again, giggles, and replies, "You need to take a shower anyway..."

 

They waste no time rushing out of there, lore and weird looks trailing behind.


	5. Elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Dean made a homophobe think he was deathly ill.
> 
> TW: physical violence against queer people, hate crime, characters in implied danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly doubt anyone reading these fics has a problem with queer people (mostly because your author, me, am queer, and yes I purposefully made that sentence weird sounding and secondly, who tf reads gay fiction if they have problems with gay people?! Well, I guess fetishisers, but likeeeee)
> 
> Anyway, I'd just like to take a second to remind every single one of my queer, trans, non-binary, and PoC readers, from one queer non-binary PoC to you sweet humans, I know everything is a little scary here in America right now. And it's going to be scary for a while, I can't lie to you. And it's probably going to get scarier. But we have come too far to let a rotting sack of oranges take us down. And we are strong and we will fight back and I will be right there next to all of you, because we need to stick together right now. I love y'all so much.
> 
> Lastly, PLEASE go out and vote on November 6th this year. If you are eligible to vote, remember to register and make your voice heard. This is our only shot.

The doors glide open and they step on. The man from last night, the one they saw beating up a queer couple for kissing in the hotel bar, is already on the elevator. He never saw them before they decided to leave the bar to avoid getting barraged by All American Patriotic Homophobic Glory. They're a little surprised he wasn't arrested. But not really, with the state of the world.

 

"You CIA? FBI?" The man grunts, gesturing to their suits. 

 

"CDC," Sam replies quickly, holding his hands behind his back. Dean can see them fidgeting. "Investigating a possible bird flu outbreak."

 

"Oh shit, man," the guy says, making his hoarse voice more obvious. "In the hotel?"

 

Sam starts to speak again but Dean takes the opportunity to mess with this piece of shit. 

 

"Yeah, dude. You probably have it. You should go to the hospital, man, bird flu is deadly," Dean puts on a convincing facade. Nothing he's never done before. This time it's to scare a bully instead of to convince the local authorities. 

 

"Oh my god!" The man cries out and makes a beeline for the front doors of the hotel the moment the elevator opens, leaving behind a smirking Dean and laughing Sam.

 

The doors slide closed again and, as the elevator descends to the bottom floor of the parking garage below the hotel, Sam and Dean weave their fingers together, and smile.


	6. Finesse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You better strap in, guys, gals, and non-binary pals, because I have a ton of these. I'm not all the way through them yet, and will continue posting as I finish each one.
> 
> Anyway, this one is just pure cuteness and you will fucking die of going "awwww" too hard.

"Guess we should get going, then," Dean mumbles gruffly, pulling cash out of his wallet. "You wanna split up? You take the weird lookin' guy at the metalworking shoppe and I'll check out the warehouse."

 

"Yup, sounds good," Sam clears his throat and scoots out from the booth.

 

The seat where he wasn't sitting is cold to the touch. The window is, too. It's a Washington state autumn. Cloudy, rainy, and cold. He didn't think to bring an extra suit in case he gets caught in the rain.

 

Sam trails his brother out the door and onto the sidewalk outside. He surveys the street, straightening his suit jacket, always alert, always ready to be attacked from behind. 

 

Unfortunately for Sam, always being alert has its pros and cons. One of the cons is that sometimes he forgets to pay attention to other things. Like walking. And things that could possibly stop him from walking.

 

His foot slides over the curb in just the wrong way and he feels himself begin to make the descent into embarrassment and probably a lot of wet sand and gravel.

 

But FORTUNATELY for Sam, Dean's always been hyper-aware of Sam and the state in which he currently exists. Always right next to him, waiting for the danger, daring it to go through him first. 

 

In one swift motion, Dean catches Sam mid-fall and leans in for a short liplock. Sam's cheeks light up, red as Rudolph's shiny nose. 

 

"Dean, the diner has floor to ceiling windows. Everyone is staring at us right now."

 

Dean only chuckles, slow and sweet, and tilts Sam back up on his feet. 

 

He twists his fingers with Sam's and tugs him the rest of the way across the parking lot to the Impala, all the while jauntily whistling You Are My Sunshine.


	7. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam lets Dean help him deal with mental illness
> 
> CW: ableist language (self deprecating), su*cide ideation, intrusive thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that this depiction of OCD is derived from my own experience of developing and living with OCD after being sexually assaulted. Not all OCD looks, feels, or acts the same. If you think you might have OCD, talk to a specialist or consult the DSM-5 for safe self-diagnosis.

A circle. A square. No that's not right either. A triangle, maybe? What about a polygon? Does it really matter? Why is he doing this again?

 

Dean's hand gently falling on his own is the only thing that stops the madness. Brings him back to reality.

 

"You were doing it again," Dean whispers, other hand resting lovingly on Sam's head. 

 

He cringes. He hasn't showered in at least a week. His hair is greasy and knotted. Not even in a ponytail to hide the dysfunction.

 

Dean slides the pencil from his hand and lays it down on the table elsewhere. He doesn't lay it down right. 

 

_Fix_ _it_ _fix_ _it_ _fix_ _it_ _fix_ _it_ _fix_ _it_

 

"Remember your exercises, Sammy."

 

"I hate the exercises. They're ridiculous."

 

"No, a platypus is ridiculous," Dean retorts snidely, pulling Sam's chair away from the table. "Your exercises are for coping. For both of us."

 

_BURDEN you're a burden he's saying you're a burden, you are maybe you should leave and jump off a bridge, kill somebody and get locked up_

 

Sam slams his hands into either side of his head, screwing up his face angrily. 

 

The voices won't shut up. Why won't they shut up?!

 

Dean takes Sam's hands with light fingers and intense care. He holds the hands tight in his own and tells Sam to look at him. Sam does.

 

"I love you, Sammy. Okay? I know you're gonna kick that OCD in the ass. I can help you. We can do it together. You don't have to let it take over," he murmurs, low voice, shiny eyes. "Okay?"

 

"I've never heard of anyone else developing OCD from a traumatic event. Why am I so...different? Weird? I don't get it," Sam trails off. He looks back down, tears welling. 

 

_Cry_ _baby_. _Go_ _do_ _something_ _useful_ , _like_ _washing_ _the_ _laundry_ , _or_ _fixing_ _that_ _stupid_ _pencil_ _that_ _stupid_ _Dean_ _doesn't_ _know_ _how_ _to_ _stupid_ _stupid_ _stupid_  

 

"You are not weird," Dean's tone becomes ferocious, insistent. He forces Sam to look at him. "You're NOT weird. Everyone deals with grief differently. Some people hide it away for the rest of their lives and suffer in silence. Some people's brains create alternative ways to cope. You're not weird, you're traumatised. Okay?"

 

Dean puts emphasis on the last 'okay'. Is he annoyed?

 

_You_ _could_ _go_ _one_ _day_ _without_ _being_ _so_ _difficult_ , _you_ _know_

 

Sam furrows his brows and concentrates on the feeling of Dean's hand gripping his. Nods. 

 

"Okay, buddy," Dean smiles softly, one hand cupping Sam's cheek, the other still squeezing Sam's fingers. He pushes Sam's gross hair behind his equally gross ear. "I love you."

 

Sam smiles at the ground. Those words are like a hypnosis or a charm of some kind. He calms, his entire body relaxing. The intrusive thoughts that plague him in the shape of his own voice fade away for the moment. He feels whole again. 

 

Even if only for the moment.


	8. Hamper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn, we're only on H? Feels like I've been doing this for a few hours aha.  
> Anyway here's some unabashed, OOC, mildly arousing sort-of smut for you. 
> 
> A lot of things about this whole thing are very "sort-of", so I can't say I'm mad that we're staying on-theme so far.
> 
> But seriously, this fic is so cheesy, you might have to move to Wisconsin to read it.

"Damnit, Sam, again with this?" Dean mutters to himself, holding up a pair of sweats two sizes too big for him that he just pulled from the hamper. 

 

For weeks, he's been finding Sam's clothes in HIS laundry. Which means Sam's been sneaking his dirty clothes into the wash with Dean's stuff. Which means Sam is a lazy asshat.

 

"Dean?!" Sam calls from his bedroom down the hall. Dean makes a face at his empty doorway, waiting for Sam to appear in it. "Dean have you seen my--" 

 

Sam rounds the corner and stops short when he catches sight of Dean and takes inventory of the display: Dean's face scrunched up in utter annoyance, the missing sweatpants in Dean's hands, the hamper of Dean's clean laundry right beneath.

 

"Oh, thanks!" Sam says, rather unobservantly, reaching for the apparel. 

 

Dean holds the pants out to the opposite side and works his jaw, trying to make it as apparent as possible that he is pissed.

 

Sam just widens his eyes. 

 

Gotcha, you little shit.

 

"What have I told you about putting your laundry in with mine?" Dean asks in the coldly calm voice he only uses when he's especially scolding Sam.

 

"Dean, I swear it was an accident. I don't know how they got in there. Just give them back--"

 

"You're a liar," Dean points his finger accusingly. "You liar. How else could they have gotten in MY laundry?!"

 

"Well..." Sam's face turns cherry red and he scrubs a hand over his other arm, looking down. "It could've been that night we got a little too drunk and--"

 

"Do not finish that sentence. I'll disown you," Dean threatens. But he gives in and throws the sweats at Sam, if only to get him out of his room. 

 

Sam lingers, picking at invisible things on his recovered pants. 

 

"Dean, I really think we should talk about it...I mean, like," Sam pauses and sighs, digging his fingers into the clothing. "What does this mean? About...us?"

 

Dean just breathes sharply, staring into his hamper. What can he even say? What excuse does he even have? 

 

' _Yeah_ _hey_ _Sammy_ _so_ _sorry_ _I_ _got_ _both_ _of_ _us_ _drunk_ _and_ _kissed_ _you_ _on_ _the_ _mouth_ _for_ _like_ _five_ _minutes_ _and_ _then_ _undressed_ _you_ _and_ _sucked_ _your_ _dick until you came_ , _anyway_ _how's_ _your_ _day?_ '

 

Yeah, right. 

 

He swallows hard. Squeezes his eyes shut. Kicks the hamper out of the way. Approaches Sam and puts his hand on the sweatpants, gently pulling them away.

 

"Okay, Sammy," he whispers finally. "Let's talk about it."

 

"Really?"

 

"Yeah," Dean answers weakly, pang of anxiety boiling in his stomach. He's not even drunk anymore and he still wants to kiss Sam. What the fuck is wrong with him? "Yeah let's...let's talk."

 

Sam is silent for a moment too long and when Dean looks back up, Sam is just staring him down, beautiful lips parted, eyes bright.

 

Both of them still have their hands on the damn sweatpants. 

 

"We don't have to...talk...if you'd rather not," Sam murmurs, inching closer. 

 

"Do you...want to talk?" Dean asks softly, letting the question trail off, leaving unsaid the unbearably dirty things he's really thinking.

 

"No," Sam shakes his head, pressing in as close as possible, what with the pants between them.

 

Dean angrily throws the pants to the side, growling, "Goddamn pants," before yanking Sam closer by his shirt collar and smashing their faces together. 

 

He tastes so much more familiar, so much more like _him_ , without the alcohol inhibiting Dean's senses. He feels right. Like he was meant to fit between Dean's arms. Like there was never meant to be a single inch of space between them. 

 

Yeah, he feels right.

 

Goddamn pants.


	9. Ignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the interruption in uploading, I had to take a break to replenish my meat suit. 
> 
> Prepare your anuses...ani...your collective...anus...for this brutal shit I'm about to throw your way.

" _If_ _this_ _is_ _it_ _for_ _me_ , _then_ _this_ _is_ _really_ _it_. _Last_ _time_. _No_ _more_ _second_ _chances_."

 

Dean feels the words cracking against the inside of his skull like a bat against a ball. His lip shivers with the memory. 

 

He didn't go with. He was scared. If it truly was going to be the last time, then Dean wanted to remember him the right way. The way that made Dean happy. He wanted to remember him just like that - the puppy eyes, that ridiculous grin, rosy cheeks, floppy hair that had never been touched by a barber. Just like that.

 

But that's not how Dean gets to remember him. Not now. Dean had to watch on, helpless to stop it. Dean had to see that British agent snap his neck in half. He was held down and forced to look at the execution. That's what it was - an execution. And they knew just how to get into Dean's head. 

 

Make him suffer and let him go, so that he has to live with it. So thy can continue this little game of cat and mouse.

 

What those British fuckwads don't know is that this time? This time they went too far. This time, they gave Dean an opening. To crawl out from under their paw and become the cat, himself.

 

And as he flicks the zippo lighter, finally letting the tears loose, he lets the flame inside himself breathe life into this new rage - a ferocious storm he's never felt before. 

 

He throws the lighter onto the body, bloody revenge already plotted. Swipes the tears from his eyes.

 

"Goodbye, Sammy," he murmurs, low and shuddering, flames reflecting orange and yellow in his eyes, turning green irises fiery to match the ticking bomb planted in his wrecked soul.

 

And as he lowers his face, setting his jaw and clenching his fist, he remembers the last words his brother ever said to him.

 

" _Even if I do die, you've got an advantage on them. Something they don't know about you. That Dean Winchester is a dangerous man to mess with."_

 

He turns his back to the fire that consumes the remains of his brother. The flames which lick at Sam's crooked neck and dull eyes. That sizzle his stupid long hair away. 

 

He lets the fury in his gut balloon until it pops. And as he walks away, never looking back, he only thinks one thing.

 

**Dean Winchester is a dangerous man to mess with.**


	10. Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this....a creative representation of my inescapable desire to fling myself from a cliff? 
> 
> Yes. Yes it is.

"On three?" Sam asks hopefully, squeezing Dean's hand tightly enough to cut off circulation. To his relief, Dean nods and starts to count with him. "One...two....three!"

 

Then they're flying through the air, plummeting from the edge of a cliff, hands woven together. The sea comes hurtling up at them. Dean is whooping with excitement.

 

They hit the water at what seems like maximum velocity - their hands are yanked apart, Sam feels the burning on his back from the slap of churning water. His body folds in like a lawn chair. 

 

When he makes it to the surface, gasping for air, he doesn't see Dean anywhere. Not in the water beside him, as he should be, not on the shore. Nowhere. 

 

Sam begins to panic. What if Dean hit the water too hard. What if he's drowning, passed out and sinking to the bottom of the sea. 

 

Just as Sam reaches the peak of his anxiety, he feels two familiar arms wrap around his waist and Dean's head pokes up a second later, laughing hysterically. 

 

Sam slaps Dean upside the head and shouts, "That's not funny, Dean, I thought you were dead!"

 

Dean only chuckles and pulls him closer, strong arms folding around his lower back. 

 

"Sorry," Dean whispers, definitely not sorry, and leaves a wet peck on Sam's lips.

 

"You're an ass," Sam pouts, trying to at least LOOK like he's still angry. Obviously he fails. Dean just laughs again, that full body, head-thrown-back, toothy grin laugh. "You're _my_  ass," Sam adds, letting himself smile.

 

Dean nods and kisses him softly, salty, wet lips sliding together effortlessly. 

 

Everything feels perfect, just for a second. 

 

And, as always, Dean has to ruin the moment by uttering the words which Sam dreaded he would.

 

"Wanna go again?"


	11. Kera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sloppy writing is sloppy. Nevertheless, here is some sort-of kinky smut
> 
> CW: bdsm in the form of orgasm denial, threesome

Her name is Keralandi.

 

"Kera, for short," she said. "It's just easier."

 

The boys didn't think they would ever see her again. 

 

She was their last case - plagued by phantom sensations and mysterious blackouts. Nightmares of hellish worlds unkown.

 

Djinn poisoning. Turned out, those djinn fucked with the wrong woman. Tried to knock her out for food, but she's immune, somehow. The poison only made her sick. 

 

That was three states ago.

 

But tonight, at a crowded college bar with flashing purple and blue lights and no cares in the world, located in the most random city, their paths crossed again. 

 

Dean was too drunk to be suspicious of these circumstances, and to be fair, Sam's hand was slowly creeping closer to his crotch. 

 

She approached them with surprise and confusion, but not disgust. She already knew they were brothers. Somehow, seeing them make out in public wasn't weird to her.

 

"I think it's hot," she said.

 

And that's what lead the three of them back to the motel room. That's why, currently, Dean is enjoying the privilege of slamming his dick into his brother's ass while watching him moan into Kera's pussy. 

 

Sam and Kera's groans of pleasure blend together in a beautiful harmony, filling the sweat soaked room with magic.

 

"I wanna watch her fuck you," Dean breathes haughtily against Sam's ear, which moves with Sam's head as the younger man nods.

 

Dean pulls out, jumping at the feeling of exiting, and watches closely as Sam flips onto his back and lets Kera slowly sink down onto his pulsing cock, her hands wrapped around his neck. 

 

His mouth twitches into a smirk, and he lets the two go at it for a moment, rubbing his own dick with fervor, eyes on Sam's elated face.

 

Then he whispers to Kera so Sam can't hear, and she grins and momentarily swings herself off to the side. Sam whimpers at the absence of touch, but soon Dean is scooting beneath his brother, Sam's back to his chest, and sliding his member back into Sam, achingly slow, teasingly.

 

He clasps his hand over Sam's mouth to keep him from screaming as Kera slips his cock back inside herself and replaces one hand on his neck, the other leaving angry red lines across his chest.

 

Dean feels Sam's body tremoring like an earthquake, hands gripping the sheets, mouth hanging open and breath hot against Dean's palm. 

 

He whispers affirmations into Sam's ear, "you're such a good little toy. I love seeing you squirm like this, so close to coming, knowing you're not allowed to yet. You're so fucking hot, Sammy, so hot."

 

Kera bends down, graceful as willow branch, and Dean lets her latch onto his lips, feels all three of them move so perfectly in tandem. Her mouth is soft and tastes like watermelon wine coolers and minty chapstick.

 

As if being attached at the mouth makes them telepathically connected, they both make their way to Sam's throat, dragging lips and sucking skin and biting hard. 

 

Sam starts pleading to come, shoving a hand under Dean's head and gathering the hair in his fingers. 

 

Dean reminds him he's not allowed to until Kera does. He tastes the salty saline of a tear tracing from Sam's eye to the edge of his jaw, and it makes Dean smile. The younger man is so out of it, body being brought to the brink by a million sensations at once, that he's nearly unconscious.

 

Dean was hoping Kera would last longer but within moments, she's shaking, hips bucking with Sam's dick all the way inside her, and he loses it at the sight of someone else getting off on little Sammy's gorgeous cock and he's coming inside Sam's ass, pumping into him roughly.

 

He knows he's hitting Sam's prostate - he can feel the man contracting around him. 

 

And finally, after Kera lifts herself off Sam's neglected dick, Dean whispers, "Come for me."

 

And, damn, does Sam deliver.


	12. Lift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old fashioned angsty fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I got distracted by things that weren't posting the rest of these lmao  
> Sorry about that!

When Sam was 3, Dean would lift his little body up off the ground and spin him around and hug him. Sam would giggle, the pure joy of a toddler.

 

This became a tradition. Every night before Sam had to go brush his teeth, Dean would lift him up, spin him around, and hug him. 

 

But finally, when Sam turned 10, John told them to "quit that shit, it's weird". Sam had to admit, he was getting older - he wasn't a toddler anymore, and it seemed childish. Despite this, Dean would still scoot in on their shared motel bed and wrap Sam in his arms, late at night when John was asleep. 

 

That was the only time Sam ever felt truly warm and loved.

 

Sam remembers this now, as the djinn reaches toward him, slowly, taunting. A tear crawls down his hot cheek. He wants to give up. Give it all up. It's become so tiring. Always on the road, always worrying about Dean, always having to check over his shoulder. 

 

The memory keeps him angry, though. The memory is what helps him cut through the rope binding his hands at the last second and the memory is what pushes him to his feet, and the memory is what throws him at the djinn, what helps knock it to the ground, and bash its head in. 

 

The memory is what catches his breath and wipes his blood smattered hands on his jeans. The memory is the door to the abandoned warehouse that he exits slowly, exhausted, still crying. 

 

And then the memory becomes real again as a familiar body runs at him, jumps in his arms, and Sam spins Dean around once, and the memory fades into his muscles and he squeezes Dean's body to his.

 

And they just live in that moment, an unspoken promise to never let the memory be a memory again. 


	13. Mimic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That escalated quickly. Wonder how long this has been building up....lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, not my best writing but *shrug* who cares?! They're together and that's what matters uwu  
> (Did I just uwu on my post? I did. I did just uwu on my own post. I need to sleep.)

Dean noticed around the age of 16 that Sam tends to copy most of what he does. He's still not sure if it was conscious or not, but he started worrying that his bad habits might take hold of Sammy, too.

 

So, he quit smoking, quit drinking, quit being a flirt. He quit all of it, for Sammy.

 

He pushed himself to start doing better in school, actually caring about the material and interacting in class. He didn't actually need to do the homework - he's a well proven genius, massive IQ, and a fast learner. But he did the homework and the tests and took the notes and tutored the other kids, for Sammy.

 

And, just as he expected, a month or two later, Sammy was doing better in school and even at "home", at each random motel they stayed at. He even got along with John most of the time. Part of that may have been that Dean was doing everything he could to keep John from drinking, including replacing his liquor with non-alcoholic versions without John knowing.

 

But, Dean realised, when Sammy turned 18, doing all of this may have been his biggest mistake. He wanted Sam to succeed, to excel, to thrive, to have a better life. But he didn't expect any of that to translate to "go to college, marry a cute girl, have some kids", all that schmoozy junk.

 

So when Sam confides in him, 2 months after his 18th birthday, on a clammy night in northeast Michigan, atop the dented hood of the glossy Impala that reflects the shivering moon, Dean isn't sure what to say. 

 

"I know dad will be pissed. But this life...hunting, killing things, always being in danger?" Sam pushes out a cold, breathy laugh. "It's not for me. I'm...an academic. I could be a doctor, or an English teacher, or a lawyer. Someone important. Someone that does important things."

 

" _We_  do important things, Sam," Dean snaps, eyes on the stars. He's sitting forward, knees to his chest, arms curled around them. Sam is lying back, unable to see the way Dean's face turns peachy red. "Our work is important."

 

"Work?!" Sam chortles and sits up, trying to catch Dean's gaze. "Dean, we don't get paid for this. We aren't getting anything out of it but the constant threat of violent death. Half the time, dad's drunk because he doesn't know how to cope with loss, and you're always complaining about how sore you are. How is that work?"

 

Dean finally lets himself look at Sam, frown in his lips and eyebrows. Sam's eyes are twinkly, sad, a little angry. His cheeks are flush against the chilled wind that cools the summer heat. He's right, and Dean knows it. 

 

But he's never been one to admit his mistakes.

 

"When you were younger, like, 12 or something, I started trying to make myself a better person," Dean starts, voice hushed to match the crickets in the field beside them. "I realised you were copying me a lot of the time. Probably not intentionally, but when you spend so much time with one person, it's bound to happen. So I quit all my bad habits and got good grades and all that shit. Because I wanted you to do better." 

 

The edges of Sam's face soften, turning into static that blends with the background of the dark night. 

 

"You did all that for me?" He mumbles, some irrational gravitational pull reeling him closer to Dean.

 

"I _want_ you to do better," Dean repeats, emphasising every word. "I want you to have a better life."

 

"Then, let me," Sam whispers back. His face is so close now, Dean can smell the cinnamon gum he was chewing earlier. It smells warm and honest and hopeful, like Sam. "Do you think this is a better life?"

 

He means hunting. With Dean. Always together, always worrying about each other, always eating greasy bar food and drinking shitty beer, always at each other's side. Always in danger. It's not the best life, and admittedly, a white picket fence life would probably be better for Sam's health. _But_...

 

"I love you," Dean replies, voice so low, he almost thinks Sam doesn't hear him. 

 

Sam's lips touching his, softly, slowly, is his confirmation that Sam did, indeed, hear him. Along with Sam's fingers tracing Dean's arm, other hand tugging at his neck. And for once, Dean copies Sam instead, letting his own hands find Sam's cheeks and pulling the boy closer. 

 

And for once, he's not worried that what he's doing might ruin Sam's life. Because for once, he feels the words, the promise, on Sam's tongue, reassuring him that everything will turn out fine.

 

For once, the night gleams with serenity instead of blood.

 


	14. Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow such angst much scary very cry  
> (Someone needs to tell me to go the fuck to sleep)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be the best drabble I've ever written, ever.

"I don't know if we should go outside, Dean. Those clouds don't look very good, I think I see them rotating," Sam throws over his shoulder, holding back the curtains to watch the black sky form. 

 

From behind him, he hears Dean shoving things into a bag, checking guns, muttering to himself, and then calling back, "It's nothing Sammy. Since when's a little bad weather stopped us from ganking a motherfucker?"

 

Sam furrows his brows at Dean over his shoulder and lets go of the curtain. Turns around and flips on the TV, finds the local weather station, and turns up the volume.

 

"...rnado is very likely, as we continue to receive reports of partial vortexes forming over the planes out near Pueblo. Already, several reports of major damage to trees and cars, as storm chasers prepare to catch this supercell in action," the anchorwoman speaks professionally, but Sam can see the concern in her eyes, and he knows Dean can hear it in her voice. "We've got Puck Herby of TwisterTamers on the phone here to keep us updated. Puck, how's it looking out there?"

 

The screen switches to a a picture of a short, pale man with balding, black hair standing in front of a military-grade vehicle.

 

His voice crackles through, struggling to be heard over a roaring in the background.

 

"Thanks, Jenny," he starts, then says something that makes Sam's stomach drop. "We are standing less than 100 yards away from a fully formed rope tornado that touched down just seconds ago here in La Junta, and...ou can hear, I'm having to talk over the sound of it and losing service every few seconds. So this is a very, very violent torn...moving northeast, and I highly suggest everyone in Las Animas, Haswell, Sheridan Lake, and around those ar...shelter RIGHT NOW because this thing is coming your--"

 

The TV blinks off suddenly, and probably for the better, because without the voices screaming at them, Sam can hear the faint sound of the same roaring he heard on the TV, this time from outside. 

 

Dean finally pauses, stopping to listen, too.

 

Slowly, Sam pulls back the curtain again, anxiety in his throat. 

 

The roaring seems to intensify the moment he looks at it - an enormous black funnel tearing across the field not 300 yards from their motel, kicking up grass and dirt and large debris in its wake.

 

"Deeeaaan!" Sam shouts, backing away from the open curtain.

 

Without a word, Dean's hand wraps around Sam's arm and he's yanked backward and into the bathroom, where Dean shoves him into the bathtub, which is filled with pillows and blankets, and slams the door shut. He climbs into the tub with Sam, tugs the shower curtain closed, and wraps them up together in a mound of pillows and blankets.

 

Sam watches him, mouth open but no sound coming out, eyes getting blurry with tears. Dean abruptly stops his fretting and looks into Sam's eyes, intense and calm. 

 

"I'm going to protect you, Sam," he whispers, and somehow his voice is the loudest thing in the room. "We will both be okay. Okay?"

 

With Dean's hands tightly grasping his face, Sam nods, knocking a tear loose onto Dean's thumb. The older man just hugs him close and tells him not to let go.

 

And then, folded together in a wimpy bathtub in a flimsy motel room, just off the road in bumfuck nowhere, they hear the tornado rumble against the windows, which burst from their frames within seconds. Somehow, when the tornado tears the roof from their room, stealing the shower curtain with it, Sam doesn't feel himself follow the debris into the swirling vortex. 

 

Somehow, 124 seconds after Sam was thrown into the bathtub, 90 seconds after Dean held his face and told him they'd be okay, 52 seconds after the glass shattered, and 35 seconds after the roof was torn from the building, somehow, Sam isn't dead.

 

Somehow, he's hearing the tornado retreating into the distance, blankets and pillows still wrapped around him.

 

And somehow, when he opens his eyes, he's the only one that remains in the bathtub.


	15. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for homophobic violence/major character death  
> That's all I'll say....  
> I must've been real angry with y'all when I wrote this bc this is gonna tip your heart out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sometimes I change the boys' ages so that during adolescence it doesn't get....paedophile-y...)

He doesn't know how long it's been going on. Probably much longer than he cares to imagine.

 

But the first time he witnessed a glimpse of it was when he became suspicious - 6 years ago, when Sam was 10 and Dean was 12, and he was coming back from a hunt to Robert's house, where Robert told him that he sent them out to the salvage yard to burn off some energy. When John found them, he paused mid-step and nearly faceplanted because instead of running around, they were sitting on the ground together, holding hands, and Sam's head was on Dean's shoulder.

 

That, in itself, wasn't necessarily too strange. John read up and found that it's normal for closely bonded siblings to show affection physically - i.e. holding hands, staying close to each other, and hugging. 

 

But then, 3 years later, when he'd forgotten about the whole thing, he saw it again. This time, there was no excuse for him to doubt what was going on.

 

Because this time, as he exited the motel room with the final duffle bag in hand, ready to move on to the next hunt, he saw them kissing. Dean had Sam pushed up against the Impala and a hand caressing Sam's cheek, and they kissed slowly, not unlike a newlywed couple. Their hands were still intertwined. 

 

He didn't say anything that day. He just turned back around and slammed the motel door shut, a warning that he was coming, and made himself pretend he didn't see. He tried not to spend too much time around them. He wasn't sure how to confront the situation. Wasn't sure how they'd react to knowing that he knows. 

 

Over the next 3 years, he convinced himself it was normal. That any siblings spending so much time together would bond this way. That he knew the risks from the beginning. That he knew, eventually, they'd only need each other. But he never expected it to go this far. Never expected what he walked in on today.

 

He'd only gone out for a beer or two. Leaving the two of them in the motel room to...do whatever. And he has a sick suspicion that they planned for him to see. To hurt him. 

 

Because when John walked back into the room, and looked to the left at the couch against the wall the door is on, he met eyes with Sam, who smiled a harsh, evil smile as he bounced in Dean's lap, their fingers intertwined, and he couldn't seem to rip his eyes away from the sight and he couldn't seem to plug his ears against the sound of them orgasming at the same time, calling each other's names. 

 

And now, as he sits in a car he stole in the middle of an abandoned park, gun in hand, he debates the pros and cons of ending himself then and there, of splattering the window with his brains. He has no more food or beer in his stomach to gag back up onto the ground. He has no more space to turn up the volume of the music to drown out the echoes of their moans. He has no more energy to keep the act up.

 

So when there's a tap on the window, and he rolls it down to see his eldest son, who asks if everything is okay, he doesn't think about what his hand is doing before he raises the gun and a shot rings out. And he doesn't remember seeing Dean stumble backward and fall to the earth. And he doesn't drop the gun when he hears his other son scream Dean's name and watches him rush to the body in the grass and drop to his knees to try and fix something that can't be fixed. And he doesn't feel anything when Sam looks up at him and sees the gun in his hand and the boy's eyes widen and his shocked voice, muffled by the ringing in John's ears, accuses him of shooting Dean. Nor does he listen to Sam's screams of protest when he doesn't answer, and instead only drops the gun on the ground and starts the car.

 

And he doesn't look back as he drives away, leaving it all behind, and knowing that someday, Sam will come for him, and that will be his end.


	16. Pyjamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why do I always have to be this way c:  
> Minor CW for maybe sorta coercion, non-consented touching

His tall frame appears in the doorway, throwing a long shadow across the floorboards. 

 

Quiet voice, "Can I borrow a shirt?"

 

The corners of Dean's lips wander up, poke themselves into the hills of his cheeks.

 

"C'mere," he murmurs lazily, voice rough with sleep.

 

The tall frame hesitates in the doorway, shifting on its feet, and then approaches him with a nervous gait. When the tall frame reaches his bed, he sits up.

 

"All of mine are dirty," the younger man says. Tall frame. Lithe figure, oversized hands, worn and calloused. Soft, too. 

 

Dean traces the scars on his brother's chest, dancing intricate patterns into the white pearls - the one that starts at this left collarbone and tilts down into his armpit. The one that sits between his seventh and eighth ribs. The one that runs from his solar plexus to the right side just under the tip of his last rib. The one that begins just over his right hip and disappears below the waistband of his sweats.

 

One of the oversized hands catches Dean's wrist when his fingers hit the top of the waistband. He rolls his eyes upward, not moving his head. 

 

He sees parted lips and fluttering eyelashes. Salmon shaded cheeks, gruff stubble piercing a jaw.

 

"I asked for a shirt because I need to go to the store. We're out of whiskey," the voice is pointed with the last 4 words. "You're drunk, aren't you." It's not a question.

 

Dean shakes his head slowly. And it's the truth. He really hasn't had a drink since the day before. Still, the tall figure with its rugged tone and shirtless chest doesn't budge. 

 

"Dean," a short, breathless whisper. The hand is still gripping his wrist. It loosens, glides to his own hand and crosses their fingers together. "You remember why we had to stop doing this. You know...you know I want to but-" The hand squeezes tight and so do the sunflower field eyes. A mix of a resilient sigh and defeated sob exits the lips. "It's dangerous," nearly inaudible, hiccuped with a stifled sob.

 

But the hands and the lips do not agree. Because the lips are saying they shouldn't, but the hands are wrapping Dean's hands around the hips and then clasping his face.

 

And finally, Sammy's whole face comes together, no longer comic book boxes of close up body parts, all fragmented and disconnected. Because he's bending down and pulling Dean up and their lips are colliding and everything is whole again. For the first time in years after what their father did to Dean for this.

 

Hell, he even thinks that he feels the tingle of the missing half of his left leg.


	17. Quoiceneck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quoiceneck:  
> Noun  
> A deep grey, iridescent shale, predominantly found near coal mines, lead quarries, and northern rivers

Sam crouches on the dark grey shore, beside the grey water and beneath the grey sky. A smooth, polished cube of shale the colour of gun metal glints like a star among the pale, dull river stones lining the water's edge. It's the weight of lead, cold to the touch.

 

"What'd you find?" Dean smiles, boots crunching in the pebbles as he walks up behind Sam.

 

"Must be washed downstream from Wisconsin. It's obviously traveled a long way," Sam explains, holding it up so Dean can examine the details. "Wouldn't expect to usually see something like this in New Orleans."

 

"You think it's connected?" Dean surmises, raising a brow. 

 

"Maybe," Sam grunts as he stands back up. The gravel rolls against itself beneath his feet, an eerie harmony digging itself a tunnel into the tune of the rushing river. The shore remains otherwise silent - a cloudy day in late November makes for low traffic. "I think it didn't get here on its own all the way from Wisconsin without being discovered and picked up by someone else first."

 

They've been hunting what seems to be the American version of the Lochness monster. Cryptids....aren't especially their strongsuit. But they've seen much stranger. And the lore doesn't lie. 

 

Dean smiles at the rock, coalescing a brilliant contrast to the grey scenery. 

 

"What are you smiling about?" Sam can't help but smile back. He folds his arms softly around Dean's waist. Pushes the man's chin up with his finger. 

 

"I want our rings to be made of this," Dean replies, yet again alluding to his frivolous dream of someday being married. Tied by blood and bond. "It just feels like it has a good energy to it."

 

Sam snorts and remarks, "What, are you a witch now?" 

 

To which Dean retorts, "Shut up."

 

So Sam just giggles and presses his lips to Dean's forehead. 

 

Their love shines turquoise against the grey sky.


	18. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just tooth rotting fluff. And really messy writing. Idk I struggled to make this one come together but *shrug*

 

"What the hell do you mean, you 'only brought _one_ umbrella'?!" Sam shouts over the roar of the torrential rain. "I told you we needed two!"

 

Dean frowns. "We might just have to make a run for it."

 

"A ru-a _run_ for it?! We parked two blocks away, you asswipe!" Sam shouts, becoming increasingly outwardly frustrated by having no protection except a library book and his rented monkey suit. 

 

Of course, Dean being the aforementioned asswipe that he is, he simply yanks Sam out into the worst of it and drags him along the sidewalk, Sam stumbling and slipping behind him.

 

"Dean, slow down!" Sam calls ahead, nearly dropping his book. And then actually dropping his book when Dean comes to an abrupt stop and Sam slams into him like a brick wall at full speed.

 

Dean catches him with his full body and Sam is no longer being pelted by near-frozen droplets of atmosphere. 

 

And pressed together in the pouring rain, beneath a paper thin umbrella, Dean kisses Sam, deeply and passionately. And Sam tastes like sun soaked willow leaves and old leather and the gentle caress of a monarch's wing, and he feels like dewy grass in  the spring and silky spider webs in wild bushes and soft bunny noses, and he smells like old wood on a sea water board walk and craft store fabric and flowery shampoo, and Dean's body hums against Sam's as though the thunder in the distance resonates in the mere nanometres between them. 

 

And somewhere in the act of getting lost in each other, Dean forgets he's holding the umbrella and the rain comes tumbling down on them both. But neither of them cares.

 

Now, soaked to the bone and shivering, they finally part.

 

Dean frowns again, surveying their drenched clothing, and says, "I should've brought another umbrella."


	19. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh profound!Sam....nothing beats that. Well, maybe sleep. But wHO NEEDS THAT AMIRITE?!?!!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a nerve-wracking process to copy these from my writing app and paste them here without losing the whole thing. I don't know what I'd do if I lost a fic that I'd worked so hard on...it's happened before.

Sam watches him lean against the frost bitten window positioned just above the end of his bed. Its panes have been steamed over from their...exercise.

 

Dean reaches over to his dresser and yanks a cigarette out of the pack, and snatches the lighter next to it. Lights it, eyes hooded by heavy lids, fantastic, gentle hands committing an insignificant cruelty. He chucks the lighter across the room, leaving it to be found whenever he cares enough to find it.

 

Sam watches him with curious fervour, pupils expanding, contracting, messy mop of hair scratching against the dull blue paint of the wall, bare shoulders shifting, clammy with sweat and amour.

 

He thinks Dean a god among men, a saviour, a painting of miracles come to life. He's calming, like blue wind swirling the snow outside, or the life advice you don't expect to find from the vagabond man with long hair and a scratchy sweater who stands at the corner of 5th and Nowhere, or the view atop the clouds lined by golden sunset and soaked in pink the colour of his lips. He's like the thrill of the edge of a cliff or the scream of a roller coaster with a million loops. He doesn't even need to be touching Sam, and the younger boy can still feel every ounce of his weighted presence, the gravity that he doesn't know descends upon any room he walks through, because he's arrogant and clueless and wonderous.

 

But the truth is, he's just a human, just like Sam, glorious as he may seem.

 

Despite that fact, he turns to Sam, irises tickled by blue winter light withering through the window, and says in a hushed but serious tone, "I don't ever want to catch you smoking, Sammy. You know how bad it is, right?"

 

Sam smiles and nods, content with following every request.

 

The older boy smirks and his hand comes up to trace Sam's jaw. He leans into it, eyes fluttering closed.

 

"I love you," Dean's whisper drifts between each crevice in his brain and scrubs the inside of his skull clean of all doubt. He breathes it out like the smoke from Dean's lungs.

 

Content.


	20. Tent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for underage.  
> Sometimes you just have to let the smut speak for itself ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Sam had said he'd sleep in the back of the Impala. 

 

"It's okay, it's comfortable back there," he'd lied, eyes on Dean. 

 

The boy's frame is nearing 6'1 by now. There's no way he's comfortable back there. 

 

But Dean didn't have to wait long for Sam to do exactly what he expected the teen to do - sneak into Dean's tent, after John had settled in, and climb right on top of Dean to smash their faces together.

 

Now, Sam wriggles against him, slender back to Dean's chest.

 

He has his hand over Sam's mouth to keep him from getting too loud, and his lips against Sam's ear to remind him to shush, and two fingers up Sam's hole, soaked with lube and spit. 

 

He'd bent the younger boy over, face to the cold ground, ass in the air, and licked him until he was shivering, not from the cold, but from pleasure.

 

Now Sam is doing gymnastics, back arching away from Dean at a spectacular angle, as he struggles not to come too soon. Or to scream. John's tent is just 3 feet away, and fabric does not count as walls. At least not when it comes to how loud Sam can be.

 

Dean whispers, "Three?"

 

Which elicits an all-too-eager nod from Sam, and he slides a third finger in, cautiously, not to tease him but to be gentle. He's always so afraid of breaking his little baby brother. He knows he shouldn't be. Sam is strong, resilient, and oh so bendable. 

 

Dean's hand hums with Sam's voice but it's not a regular moan. 

 

He leans in to listen and catches Sam's muffled request, "Want you inside me."

 

Smirking, he kisses Sam's jaw and pulls his fingers away, making sure Sam feels every millimetre of it. Then he presses his dick, which he's been grinding on Sam's lower back, against the opening, savouring how Sam squirms attempting to push back into it. 

 

And then he's feeling Sam surround him, and every muscle in his body tingles with joy. He uses the energy to stroke Sam's own dick, timing the pumps with every entry and exit, drenched in euphoria as Sam spasms around him. 

 

Sam is panting swear words into Dean's other hand and clutching at the bottom of the tent with one hand and Dean's hair with the other.

 

He takes Dean all the way in, over and over, letting his older brother bring him to the edge. And when he reaches it, Dean begs him to come, to make a mess, and Sammy does, like the beautiful little soldier he is.

 

His hips buck of their own accord, trapped between being skewered on Dean's cock and Dean's hand looping around his member, which only intensifies every second of that colourful, star-speckled orgasm. 

 

And by the time he's finished spraying white ropes onto every surface, Dean is slamming his whole body into Sam's ass, letting loose inside him, mouth hanging agape with teeth scraping against Sam's shoulder.

 

Then the only sounds that fill the tent are ragged breathing, the crickets screaming outside, and Sam's body crinkling the fabric as he rolls over and curls up in Dean's arms.


	21. Upstream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nostalgic fluff. Honestly writing this made me feel so serene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this one, on, the fics get a little longer. Probably because when I start talking I don't know when to shut up. And I always over-explain. Anyway. Enjoy!

Sometimes, John takes them to a remote, 2 bedroom cabin nestled in the trees alongside a thin, twisting river in the deep, jade forests of Nevada. It's kind of like their home away from the road. Uncle Bobby's offered a few times to let them stay with him - he has plenty of room since he never had kids of his own - but John likes the quiet, the solitude of the shoreline.

 

Generally, he just leaves the boys to do whatever they want. Get their rough and tumble energy out. Run around to their hearts' desires. What he doesn't know is that, early on, when Sam was just 12, and Dean 14, they stumbled upon something that would become akin to a sanctuary for them.

 

Late one afternoon, while exploring farther upstream than they'd ever gone before, they discovered a perfect, shallow cave, just on the edge of the water so that they had to walk through the shallowest part to get inside. For years, they'd seen it in the distance and had thought it was just a plain boulder. But it was almost as if it had been carved in just for them. 

 

The opening faces the water, which is barren of any human life, as is the other side of the river, and they don't have to worry about their backs being to the forest or anyone seeing them from either side (namely, John). It fits exactly 6 oversized pillows and 2 fluffed blankets, with room left over for a small storage box split into two compartments in which they keep snacks and...other various items, and for the two of them, so long as they are huddled together, just as they mean to be.

 

And so, over the years, they'd "sneak off" (but not really, since they weren't explicitly forbidden to go to any specific place around the cabin), and they'd find their little hut and they'd curl up together and watch the river. 

 

That little shelter, just big enough for the two of them and no one else, was the place that Dean first kissed Sam. It was the place they first went a little further than kissing. It was the place where they first explored each other, hesitant and nervous and wary, and then the place they first made love in the dead of night in the middle of June, gasping billowy puffs of contented air that shined beige in the moonlight. That little shelter, where the top ten most important things in their lives took place. Where they hid from the entire world except for each other, and, in fact, opened up to each other. 

 

Now, fingers laced tightly together, they stand in front of that little shelter, upstream from the now decaying cabin that hasn't seen a human in who-knows-how-long, and that little shelter right on the edge of the water is grey and covered in ivy and vines and sand, and those pillows and blankets and other things are still in there, now weathered and torn from neglect and varying tides and rain and wind and animals. 

 

They used to keep it tidy, make sure it was well loved and looked after. And then one day, they left the cabin nestled into the deep, jade trees of the Nevada forest and they never came back, and all they had left of it was the memories.

 

Until now.


	22. Valedictorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut is smutty

Dean shoves him against the brick wall of the back of the school, full force, gripping his gown collar, attached at the lips. 

 

He breaks away and whispers, hot and heavy, "You know how fuckin' proud I am of you for getting Valedictorian?"

 

Sam knows what Dean wants him to do. Play along.

 

He shakes his head, "No."

 

Dean chuckles evilly, catching his lower lip on Sam's jaw, and breathes, "Want me to show you?"

 

Sam gasps and nods fervently, pressing his hips into Dean, no cares in the world about how sloppy they're being. Anyone could see them. Not everyone knows they're brothers, but most people do and ANYONE could see them. Not to mention the way Dean is sucking his neck like a damn vampyre right now. Oh, and Dean's hand is very obviously, very unashamedly rubbing Sam's dick through his jeans.

 

Then, Dean sinks to his knees, always watching Sam's face as Sam watches Dean's, and he wastes no time lifting up Sam's graduation gown, unbuttoning his jeans, and pulling his throbbing cock from his briefs, and then taking the whole thing down to the base on the first try.

 

Sam whimpers, so tempted to let himself be loud, almost excited by the thought of being caught, and he thinks maybe Dean might be too, because the way that man is flattening his tongue around the underside of Sam's appendage and swallowing around his tip is outright fuckin' dangerous.

 

Dean hums a little tune as he goes, one hand grasping at Sam's ass and the other holding onto Sam's hip, and then, like a fucking monster, he stops suddenly.

 

Sam glances down angrily and finds Dean smirking up at him.

 

"You keep pullin' my hair like that, you might not be the only one comin' today, Sammy," he snarks, licking his lips.

 

So, of course, Sam yanks as hard as he can without actually harming Dean, and growls at him to keep going. And Dean does. Holy shit, does Dean keep going.

 

Within minutes, Dean is moaning his orgasm around Sam's dick, digging nails into his ass, and becoming a goddamn dick vacuum, so fast and hard and deep that Sam isn't far behind. 

 

Sam clasps his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out mostly because this back alley has a major echo, but also because just as he comes, he hears the sound of high-heeled footsteps marching in the distance - likely a teacher coming back to have a smoke break. 

 

Lucky for him, Dean swallows it all like a champ, and Sam gets himself back in his clothing just as the teacher rounds the corner, cigarette in hand. She gives them a look but doesn't say anything. 

 

Unlucky for Dean, he came in his jeans and now he has to sit in it until they can get to the car where Sam can maybe, possibly lick him clean.

 

But he can't promise anything.


	23. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite fitting that I'm posting this now since northwest WI just got 1 inch of snow last night. It didn't stick for long but it was there when I woke up. 
> 
> Anyway, here, have some Sam and Dean discovering each other's feelings for the first time ever

Dean laughs mockingly when his snowball clips Sam's shoulder and explodes into dusty wet pellets spraying across Sam's face. He ducks quickly to avoid Sam's retaliation. 

 

Earlier that morning, upon opening the bunker door to inspect the damage from the storm of the previous night, they'd found a brilliant, 1 foot layer of crisp, white snow blanketing the December ground.

 

And immediately decided the best course of action was to have a snowball fight. Of course.

 

Sam chucks another one full force and catches Dean off guard. The snowball collides with his right cheek and splatters his rosy skin with an icy sting. He hears Sam's laugh of surprise and quickly formulates his revenge. 

 

To get Sam to duck behind his barrier, Dean barrages him with snowballs every time he pops up to make him stay down. When Sam stays down for more than a few seconds, Dean quickly makes his way around to the trees behind Sam's barrier, attempting to not warn Sam of his approach in the crunchy snow. Then, when the younger man stands back up and gets distracted by his confusion over not being pelted with frozen water, Dean lunges.

 

He sprints at Sam, full speed, and tackles him to the ground, where he straddles Sam's hips and holds the man's wrists together above his splayed hair sprinkled with disturbed snow. Dean holds his last snowball above his own head in serious threat and smiles maniacally.

 

"Say uncle!" He demands, squeezing Sam's wrists. 

 

Sam's face burns more red than Dean expected. It's not _that_ cold.

 

In a quiet, quivering voice, Sam replies, "Dean."

 

Dean begins to retort sarcastically, "No, I said, say u--"

 

Then he feels it. Pressing into his crotch.

 

Sam...is hard. 

 

Dean freezes, suddenly as cold as the air around them as his blood drains from his face. He feels himself go pale, lips tugging apart in shock.

 

After a long moment, Sam just whispers, "Please get off."

 

Dean complies, dropping his snowball back to the ground where it dissipates into the white nothingness around them.

 

Sam sits up quickly and pulls his knees to his chest, breathing raggedly, obviously trying not to cry.

 

"I...I'm sorry," his words stumble over each other in a tone that Dean has never heard invade Sam's voice. Sam attempts an awkward explanation, "I don't know...what happened. I'm sorry. If you need to take some time, I won't be mad--"

 

Dean just grabs Sam's face with one hand slots their lips together, warm and soft and a little chapped from the winter. 

 

Sam gasps at first, but sinks into the kiss, letting Dean fill his lungs with a new kind of oxygen.

 

When he pulls back, Dean murmurs, "I'm not mad."

 

The rest of the day, of course, is not spent productively.


	24. Xylography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU autistic!Sam  
> This is actually one that I'm reading over and I think I might want to expand on this universe a little. Like maybe I could do a 10 points about this AU? Idk I'm really liking the thought of this one, because there are so many possibilities and I'm getting so many ideas. Let me know what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: I've written this as an autistic person who is selectively mute. I have experience with being a non-verbal autistic, so please take your criticism elsewhere if you are a neurotypical/allistic person.

Sam isn't stupid. Or dumb. Or 'special needs', as the school had insisted he was the entire 12 years he wasted there. 

 

He knows words. He knows two languages, in fact. He has the vocabulary. He's quite an avant writer, actually. And he loves music. All the tools are there, he just...doesn't know how to make them come out of his mouth. 

 

21 years and he's never spoken once. Not by choice, by any means. If he could talk, he damn well would. He'd never choose this life over a normal one - one where he can effectively communicate with his family and friends and lovers. One where he didn't haven't to spend his entire childhood in and out of hospitals and therapists offices, listening to adults talk about him as if he wasn't there, about what could possibly be _wrong_ with him. One where he's never been dehumanised and talked down to and treated differently by people, even complete strangers, trying to coax him into saying just one word. One where he wasn't bullied and didn't come home sobbing.

 

He would never choose this life. But that's if he had the choice. For now, he's content as he is. Not speaking has opened up doors in his life that he couldn't dream would've been opened had he been able to speak.

 

Like wood carving. Creating impeccable designs in slabs of wood and sometimes making them into stamps. He even started selling them a while ago online. People LOVE them. To this day, he receives hundreds of praiseful messages from customers around the world thanking him for his work. It makes him happy. It makes _them_ happy.

 

But most importantly, it makes _Dean_  happy. He's so stupefied by every single piece. He has unique words of pride for every one that Sam shows him. And it makes Sam so warm inside.

 

So Sam finds it only fitting to express his love for Dean, which he can't use words for, by carving Dean's favourite painting into his favourite type of wood.

 

A wispy scene of a man unbound to any singular soul, standing upon the rocky cliffs above an ocean made of clouds. The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, painted by a restless German artist named Caspar David Friedrich. It's a surreal portrait. Sam thinks Dean likes it because Dean feels the spirit of the painting in his blood. Because Dean is also a little lost, but he's at peace with that; it's how he likes things. A bit out of place. Just so to cause a mild stir in the flow of life. Like shifting a bookshelf slightly to the right.

 

Sam doesn't know, however, why Dean is so taken with ash wood. It's nothing incredibly special - peculiar, maybe, in that it's sturdy and strong but bendable, mainly used for building wooden ships back in the day. It does make spectacular carving wood, though. Sam can't complain.

 

He spends 32 hours on the piece, some days nearly forgetting to eat and do other things he needs to do to stay alive. He's so enamoured by the complexity - he's never done anything so intricate. But he's in love. 

 

And all those hours pay off when he finally presents the carving to Dean, timid, goofy smile lighting up his teeth. And Dean tells him it's breathtaking, even starts crying.

 

Dean sniffles, swiping at his cheeks, and looks up. The gratitude in his eyes is indescribable. 

 

They share a gentle kiss. 

 

Nah, he doesn't need to talk. Dean understands perfectly.


	25. Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly just straight up smut. I mean, the smut part is at the end but it's like, /smut/ smut. And maybe I may have kinda possibly used the last line as satyre bUT HEAR ME OUT: I'm sick of straight girls fetishising gay people alrIGHT okay glad we cleared that up.

She's been following their every move for months, ever since the beginning of the semester when she swore she caught the beanstalk kissing the handsome one's cheek. In fact, this may be considered stalking. But who's counting, anyway.

 

She started to keep a list of every instance in which she caught them doing something brothers absolutely do not normally do - holding hands, quick pecks on the cheek or lips when they think no one is watching. Oh, but _she's_  watching. 

 

She's traversed the entire campus to spy on them. And if someone told her she's obsessed, she wouldn't even deny it. She doesn't know why, but something about this...intrigues her. Or...maybe she's sickened? She can't place the feeling. But it's nothing she's felt before. 

 

And she's inarguably, most definitely obsessed.

 

So when they snuck off around noon, obviously she had to follow them. 

 

But now, after nearly 10 minutes of tracking their winding path around obscure, withering parts of the campus on a wild goose chase, she loses them. They disappear around a corner and when she turns it, she finds a long, empty alleyway. There's no WAY they could've cleared it that fast, even sprinting. 

 

She searches the red brick walls for a whole 15 minutes, looking for a ladder, a window, a secret alley or crevice - _anything_. 

 

Then she notices it - a sneaky service door right on the edge of the first corner they turned, painted to look like bricks. It almost flawlessly blends in. And there's no way she would have thought to look to her left the moment she turned the corner. 

 

Still frustrated but now slightly more optimistic, she silently pulls open the unlocked door and slips into a near pitch black room. It smells musty, like rotting wood and years of built up dust and cobwebs. As her eyes adjust, she notices the strange shapes around her. Stage props. Costumes and wigs. Boxes and speakers. All thrown carelessly about, forgotten on the ancient floor.

 

A theatre? She had no idea they had a theatre on campus.

 

She's examining a strange wooden cutout when, to her left, she hears faint, indiscernible noises, which seem to emanate from a lighted area of what must be backstage. Offputting, to see a light on where it obviously should not be.

 

She follows the sounds and just as she rounds a stack of apple boxes, she spots them again. And she slaps her hands over her mouth to silence her gasp.

 

In a back corner of this long forgotten building, half-hidden behind piles of long forgotten tools, the handsome one is seated on a long forgotten, precarious, high countertop, with his bare back pressed to a long forgotten wall as he breathes in puffs of long forgotten oxygen, and grips a long forgotten bar just above his head. 

 

His face, which is magnified in ecstasy, one taut arm, and spread legs are all she can see poking out behind the tall one's body, naked but for his grey t-shirt. The beanstalk has his face buried in the handsome one's neck, and is ramming into him over and over. 

 

Holy fuck, they're fucking.

 

And as she watches the handsome one slowly climb to orgasm, she realises one more thing.

 

She's unbearably wet.


	26. Zirconium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaahhh I can't believe it's already done!!!! This is exciting!!! Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and I have some good news: I will likely continue doing ABC drabbles and posting here. So get ready to be hearing from me a lot more. And as always, please enjoy, and I love you all.

"That one's 1300," the curly-haired, bored-eyed lady behind the glass case says. She briefly glances at him and goes back to filing her nails, chewing her audibly hard gum. Her pink button up shirt is tied at the waist and her shorts are two sizes too small. But she's the owner of the pawn shoppe, so it's not like Sam can say much about it. "Got it from a collector who wanted to trade in for a back bench seat for a classic car." She laughs, high and shrill. "That sucker gave me a ring worth 2000 dollars for a bunch of car seats."

 

Sam smiles politely and, with a sinking heart, sets the ring back on the counter with a glass-against-diamond clink.

 

"Is there anything a little cheaper. Something that still looks nice," he asks in a hushed voice. He doesn't want to draw attention from other customers. 

 

Unfortunately, the lady doesn't seem to care about attention.

 

"Who's the lucky lady, anyway?" She asks, rather loudly. Sam just offers a tight smile and ducks his head. "Ooooh," she hums, smiling back with pink lipstick painted teeth. "Don't wanna tell, huh. Well, that's fine, I think I know what you need." 

 

She waves a hand at him as if to shoo him away, but she crouches down and pulls a delicate, navy blue box from the bottom shelf. Inside, within the velvet stuffing, is nestled a yellow-golden ring which unashamedly boasts 11 diamonds - 10 small ones in thin rows of 3 and 2 on either side of a larger, oval one in the center. 

 

"Now, that one's not real diamonds. It's called zirconium and it looks very real," she explains, leaning over the counter to rest her chin in her hands. "The gold is real though. So no one will be able to tell the difference. It's priced at 200."

 

Sam just blinks at the sparkling beauty in his hand and mumbles, "It's perfect."

 

The lady grins and rings him up.

 

\--

 

Dean is speechless. All he can seem to do is stand there with his mouth hanging open like an idiot and stare at his brother.

 

"Dean?" Comes a small, worried voice from below. "Something...wrong?"

 

He blinks slowly at the taller man on his knee holding up the glistening, ornate ring. The box closes abruptly and Sam stands up, a sheepish blush crossing beneath his shadowed eyes.

 

"Sorry, I-I should've...I...sorry," Sam stammers.

 

He turns to walk away but Dean grabs his arm at the crook of his elbow and finds his voice.

 

"Sam," he breathes out, still shedding the remnants of being stunned. "Yes."

 

The younger man spins around, relief and hope in his eyes, and launches himself at Dean's face, ring still in the closed box between them, Sam's hand gripping the base of Dean's skull.

 

And Dean couldn't be happier.

 

He finally gets to show off one of his accomplishments in public.


End file.
